


Starchild

by monstersinthecosmos



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Fluff and Smut, Kink Exploration, M/M, Makkachin gets to wear little doggie boots, Porn with Feelings, Post Orgasm Torture, Power Bottom Katsuki Yuuri, Sex Toys, Shampoo Kink, Showers, Switching, Top Katsuki Yuuri, Top Victor Nikiforov, internalized kink shame, kinky lovemaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-10-01 00:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10175870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstersinthecosmos/pseuds/monstersinthecosmos
Summary: The love between them is strong and genuine but it’s still new, they’re still learning.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HEY Y'ALL IT'S MY FIRST YOI FIC. It was inspired by a mix of _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ and [Starchild by De/Vision](https://youtu.be/2qaOE_duWGI). Starchild really sets the tone for me but the lyrics are gendered, so if that KILLS THE MOOD FOR YOU [check out the instrumental version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jfKiXKl8XFo). [Essence](https://youtu.be/X8SGc0hmpSk) was also a huge inspiration tone wise, though the lyrics DO NOT FIT, HOW DARE. (really the whole 13 album played a part here and it's pretty good if you're into futurepop/synth/industrial check it out.)
> 
> (Worth noting that the second half of the story was written almost entirely to [Rot wie die Liebe by Eisbrecher](https://youtu.be/pWlqdPv9tHI). Some Agnes Obel might've been mixed in the middle somewhere too.)
> 
> Shoutout to Monster Energy Rehabs and [YureiYume](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YureiYume/pseuds/YureiYume) for helping me through this creative process. :)

****“Yuuri…” a whisper near his ear. A warm hand on his bare shoulder. But he curls away from it, a tiny moan slipping out as he clings to the comfortable darkness. “ _Yuuri_ ,” more of a purring now. “Yuuri wake up.”

“What time is it?” his voice is muffled into the pillow. The bed dips beside him and the warm hand moves to rub circles onto his back.

“Come on,” the words punctuated by soft kisses on the back of Yuuri’s neck. “Wake up, _rybka_.”

“Victor…” he’s mumbling and rubbing at his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You can sleep in the car.”

Victor could respond by tugging at Yuuri’s arms until he’s forced to sit up, or pull back the covers so that the sudden cold brings him to full attention. He knows because Victor has done this to him before, urging him to get up early for practice. But he doesn’t. The fact that he’s taking this gentler approach, even crawling under the covers himself, inspires such a feeling of gratitude, of adoration, complete devotion, that Yuuri opens his eyes. The room is dark, but the light spills in through the open door, soft and yellow and just enough to make out the shapes of the furniture. Victor is at his back, fully clothed, and he’s draped one arm over Yuuri’s body, hand resting flat on Yuuri’s chest.

“What time is it?” he asks again, voice a little clearer. He can make out the color of the digital clock on the nightstand but it’s too blurry to read.

“It’s three,” Victor purs. The voice, and the heat of his breath, make the hair stand up on Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri can feel the gears moving in his brain, sludgey and confused and heavy and just. Three AM. He can’t think of a single response, even the obvious _what the fuuuuuck_ can’t make it to his lips. He can’t find it in himself to argue, or question, not even to flirt--he’s been woken like this in the past, albeit with Victor less dressed--every thought is too heavy, too confusing.

There’s a quick nibble at his earlobe, then Victor’s voice rumbling again. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

He raises an eyebrow in the dark and puts a hand over Victor’s, trying to ease it down towards his hips as he presses back against the body behind him. “Do you?”

Victor chuckles and pulls away, gently, giving Yuuri a quick little squeeze on the waist before drawing back completely. “Get dressed while I go get Makka ready. Come on.”

Get Makka ready?

Yuuri is so deeply confused, and his eyelids feel like lead, the pillow like home. But then Victor is getting up, and the blankets shift and the cold air hits his skin. There’s a quick convulsion and he rubs at his upper arms, gritting his teeth in frustration. He rolls over onto his back to see Victor’s silhouette hovering in the doorway.

“I’m going to turn on the light,” he says, but he uses the dimmer so that only the faintest glow comes down around them. Yuuri can’t read the look on his face from the bed, it’s too blurry without his glasses, but he sees the way Victor’s head tilts as he stands there for another moment.

Yuuri sits up and rubs his eyes.

“Dress warm, okay?” Victor says, and then he’s gone.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Makkachin is pacing back and forth across the back seat in anticipation, his little blue puffer vest squeaking every time he pivots. Occasionally he sticks his face in between the two front seats and Yuuri gives him a pat on the nose.

Victor drives through the empty streets with practiced ease, taking sips of his tea or reaching over to hold Yuuri’s hands in the interims when he isn’t shifting gears. Yuuri is still too sleepy to pester him too much, but the shock of the cold winter air on his face when they’d come outside had brought him around enough that he isn’t planning on sleeping in the car like Victor had offered. Instead, he watches out the windows as the scenery changes, from the dense city streets to the eventual blackness of the deserted farm roads. He holds his tea to his face, breathing in the steam. Strong and black with a rosy fragrance, slightly fruity and sweet. It makes Yuuri smile against the mouth of the thermos.

As soon as they’ve cleared the city, Victor opens up on the road. He drives fast but Yuuri doesn’t feel nervous about it; he’s fascinated by how smooth and confident Victor drives. Just like the way he skates. Every shift is so fluid, and the hand on the wheel so sure. He takes his eyes off the road for a quick glance at Yuuri, and seeing that he’s more awake and alert now, he gives the volume on the stereo a slight twist. The music comes in a bit louder now to match the speed and Victor’s fingers tap out the rhythm. Yuuri likes the sound of the brown leather gloves against the steering wheel.

Hot air is coming through the vents, warming his legs and raising the blood to his cheeks. When he leans closer to the window to try to see out into the darkness, the cold from the glass grazes over his face. He likes the contrast.

“ _Put us on display for everyone to see, we write the words for all to understand,_ ” flows from the speakers. Yuuri can see Victor mouthing the words under his breath, and knows he’s restraining himself for Yuuri’s sake. He has a vivid mental image of Victor speeding along these same roads, alone, maybe in the daylight, the music so loud that the bass would be rumbling the mirrors. But tonight he’s being so tame, so respectful. Yuuri reaches over and turns it up a little louder for him, and though Victor doesn’t look away from the road, Yuuri sees the smile that blooms.

He’s not as confused anymore; curious still, yes, but not so confused. There’s a trust at play here. Victor is deliberate, purposeful.  He can’t be sure that, if he asked, Victor wouldn’t answer him--he’s obviously trying to make a fun surprise out of their adventure--yet Yuuri believes that Victor would oblige if pressed. But he knows that asking would only serve to fill a space that is otherwise peacefully wordless. Not silent--the music is loud enough now that he can feel it beneath him in the bucket seat--but wordless.

Worldless is fine.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

About forty minutes outside the city, Victor finally pulls the car aside onto a dirt shoulder and kills the engine. It seems abrupt; Yuuri turns his head back and forth a few times to try to make out where they’ve stopped, but it’s too dark to tell.

“Can you open the glove box?” Victor asks. He pockets his keys and unbuckles his seatbelt.

Yuuri clicks it open and four gold doggie boots come tumbling out. They’re shiny with white laces, sort of like Cons. Paw print patterns are on the tongues. Yuuri just stares at them, completely still, on one hand not believing that such a ridiculous person has pulled him out of bed at 3am, not sure how his fiancé even functions in the real world when he can be this much of a cartoon. On the other hand, there’s a physical ache in his chest from how much he loves this clown. He sets his thermos down in the cup holder so that he can rub at his breastbone. It’s an anxiety habit that seems like an instinct to soothe the surge of palpable emotion, even though it’s one he savors.

“What is this.” His voice is deadpan and he doesn’t even look to see Victor’s face until a beat passes without an answer. When he turns his head, he sees Victor’s eyes glittering in the dome light. The smile that pops onto his face absolutely shatters the tension in Yuuri’s chest. The shards cut.

“I don’t want his feet to get cold.” Spoken like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. And, Yuuri supposes, maybe it is.

He gets out of the car and stretches. The air feels good on his warm face for the first few seconds, then slices down into his clothes. He shivers and pulls the zipper all the way up.

Victor has come around to the passenger side of the car, flipping the seat up to let Makkachin out and then guiding him back up into the front seat. He crouches beside the open door and Makkachin is  medium-cooperative as Victor slips the boots on. It’s a funny sight, to be sure, especially when he hears the fragmented bits of Russian as Victor struggles and scolds. There’s that same feeling of love swelling inside; he can feel it filling every inch of space, pressing up against his ribs like it’s going to burst out. He places his gloved hand on his chest again, needing to know that the feeling is tangible, but as Makkachin hops out of the car and Victor stands up, he realizes it doesn’t actually _hurt_. It’s not something he can articulate but he knows it isn’t pain.

Makkachin is wobbling back and forth, kicking his legs all the way out, back foot flailing so high in the air that he almost falls over. Yuuri can’t help the loud laugh that escapes, and he takes a nervous look around in the darkness to make sure he isn't disturbing anyone. But they’re under the cover of trees and the noise seems to be completely swallowed. Victor is laughing, too, softer, and he scratches Makkachin behind the ears to comfort him before shutting the door and then going to pop the trunk open. He slings a backpack over his shoulder and then gestures for Yuuri to join him. It’s then that the timer on the car lights goes off, and suddenly it’s completely black. It causes Yuuri to stop laughing and just take a second to be in awe. It kicks his other senses into higher gear; suddenly the sounds of the forest go louder and he feels the chills rising up all over his body from the freezing air.

He can hear Victor’s footsteps approaching--a mix of crunching gravel and squelching, half-frozen slush. By the time he feels Victor’s hand on his hip, his eyes have adjusted enough to see the outline of Victor’s face. It must be moonlight, but they’re shaded by the trees. Victor leans in and kisses Yuuri on the cheek.

“I want to show you something,” he says. Yuuri’s vision is still straining in the dark but he can see the glint of Victor’s eyes. He can’t see the color but he knows how blue they are. He can picture it anyway. Victor lets out a short chuckle--a single syllable--and then leans in to kiss Yuuri on the mouth. It’s amazing the sensation of the heat, of Victor’s tongue working its way through, against the winter night. Yuuri leans into it, craving it, forgetting to be confused and curious about this expedition and feeling completely content to stand here and make out with Victor in the middle of nowhere. His gloved fingertips search for the hem of Victor’s jacket, slipping up underneath, and Victor moans as he pulls away. For the second time since this rude awakening, he stops Yuuri’s hands. He kisses Yuuri’s temple, lingering and breathing in the scent of his hair before interlocking their fingers and leading them away. “Come on.”

Victor clicks on the flashlight on his phone so that they can see the ground where they’re walking. It’s muddy around the car and snowier up around the edge of the trees. Aside from a few sets of tracks marking a path, it’s still mostly white. Makkachin is staggering beside them but not complaining and Victor says he’s always like this for the first few minutes, that he’ll be okay soon.

At first Yuuri wonders if he should panic--he tells himself not to with a cold rationality, trying to remind his anxiety brain that Victor is someone he can trust, that Victor would never endanger them by recklessly wandering out into Russian wilderness--but he realizes after a few minutes that it isn’t a forest. He can see the sky ahead, through the trees, and realizes that they aren’t that thick, that they’re approaching a clearing that isn’t very far from the road. His eyes are struggling to adjust but he’s starting to see the shapes of the trees, pitch black stalks against the sky, and beyond them, the stars.

And then Yuuri stutters to a halt when they break through into the open, and he forgets to breathe when he sees the true expanse of it.

“Victor…” it comes out on the tail end of a gasp, a whisper. Victor squeezes his hand and kisses him on the cheek again.

Yuuri has never seen a sky like this before. He’s never been this far away from light pollution, never seen so much nuance in every shape and shade. His eyes have adjusted fully now--enough to see the distinct line of the horizon in the distance, the rising and falling shapes of hills--but the sky is still so big above them it feels like a dome. He leans his head back to take more of it in. He can absorb more and more color the longer he stares, until it’s no longer black. No, a deep navy, and way in the distance, maybe the direction of the city, a subtle violet. Victor lets him stare for a bit, but then Makkachin bounces ahead and Victor urges Yuuri to come follow.

The clearing isn’t just a clearing. Once he’s able to peel his eyes away from the stars he sees that it’s a lake. The surface is frozen thick, bright white but looking gray in the moonlight. Yuuri’s heart catches in his throat as Makkachin leaps forward onto the ice, his paws sprawling in all directions, doing a half spin and falling over himself. Yuuri begins to dart after him, the alarm sounding in his brain that this is dangerous, that they have to grab him, but Victor’s hand is so steady and sure.

“It’s fine,” Victor says, but Yuuri’s pulse is already racing. Victor must be able to see it Yuuri’s face. “I promise it’s safe,” and as he’s saying it, he’s leading the way again, strolling towards the edge of the lake in no rush. Makkachin is trying to kick his boots off again, the erratic motions making him sway on his feet, but he stays upright.

When Victor puts his phone away in his pocket and goes to step onto the ice, Yuuri freezes again, not budging and trying to hold him back. He takes Victor’s wrist in both hands. “Victor!”

Victor could respond by laughing, or pulling away and leaving Yuuri there at the shore. He knows because this is the way others have responded to his fears in the past, and no matter how irrational they are, and how much he knows he should just _trust_ , he can’t always just turn the panic off. But Victor understands that, and he’s the first person in Yuuri’s life who’s ever looked it in the face like this. So instead he puts his other hand on top of Yuuri’s, and looks him calmly in the eyes. They can see each other out here, it’s bright enough beneath the moon. Victor’s hair is practically glowing. Yuuri thinks he looks like an ice prince.

And there’s that pang in his chest again, the one that he always thinks is pain at first. But it’s not. It’s really not.

“It’s very thick this time of year, I promise,” he says, and gestures towards the lake. But he doesn’t try to lead again. And the weight of the moment hits Yuuri almost hard enough to knock him down. He realizes how often he thinks of _trust_ in an abstract sense, that he’s worked so hard already to build trust in Victor in terms of the emotional risk, the vulnerability, that he’s put his heart so dangerously in another’s hands. But here’s a new angle, and it makes him pause. This is trusting Victor with something physical, something that could injure or maim him, cause him his career or even his life. This is not a test he’s put Victor to before. But…

It’s there, isn’t it?

Admitting it makes his breathing slow back down to normal, and his heartbeat quiets. He finds himself smiling and  nodding.

“Okay,” he says. But Victor doesn’t move. Victor waits for Yuuri to take the first steps.

The ice isn’t perfectly flat and manmade and freshly-zamboni’d the way a rink would be. There are little bumps and dips, and spots where sticks froze where they’d been floating, and clusters of leaves. They stay locked into each other’s arms as they do an awkward penguin walk out towards where Makkachin is still trying to kick off one of his back shoes. Even though they’ve walked on ice more than the general public, just from being around rinks all the time, the imperfections have them both feeling cautious and stiff. Still, there’s a natural grace at hand, the familiarity with their own physiologies, the practiced understanding of their centers of gravity helping them along.

Yuuri’s initial jolt of panic has smoothed over into a sort of elated exhilaration. The energy feels exciting, not as scary anymore. Feeling Victor’s steady and solid weight beside him is comforting, and his heart feels so tangled by all of it. Victor pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and tosses it to Makkachin. The dog scrambles for it and brings it back to them, dropping it back into Victor’s hand. He throws it again, this time towards the shore, and Makkachin takes off.

Out here on the lake, away from the trees, the sky seems even bigger. Yuuri stops and looks up at it. It feels like the stars are all around them, like he can reach them, like they’ve come down to touch the ground. His breath clouds in front of his face and obscures the view for a quick second and it makes him remember how cold it is. He hadn’t been paying attention, too distracted. It occurs to him that he can’t feel his nose and that he should’ve brought a scarf, because the air is sneaking down under the collar of his jacket.

It’s like Victor is reading his mind when he presses in, laying a kiss on Yuuri’s throat and hovering there, breathing against him and warming his skin. He drags Yuuri closer, shoes sliding against the ice. One hand goes to Yuuri’s waist while the other, still entangled with Yuuri’s own, lifts. He’s leading Yuuri into a dance step, spinning them slowly. The adrenaline spikes in Yuuri’s sides as Victor turns them, feet gliding in a half circle. His body, his instincts, respond to the sensation as if he’s going to lose his balance, but Victor holds him upright. The tingling spreads and warms him and pushes him to relax against Victor’s body.

“Yuuri…” Victor starts to say, but as he takes a step back to turn them again he loses his footing and tumbles backwards. He lets go of Yuuri, reflexes fast enough to try to avoid dragging his fiancé down with him, but Yuuri grabs on anyway and they both crash down onto the ice with a loud _oof_. Makkachin is back in a flash, nosing against Victor’s hair in concern, and Victor can’t stop laughing. Yuuri rolls onto his back and looks up at the stars again, and if the view wasn’t so breathtaking he’d be laughing too.

It’s better from the ground--he can’t see any of the trees in his peripheral vision anymore and it’s like being _swallowed_. He can hear Victor babytalking to Makkachin in Russian, and hears the tiny squeaks of Makkachin’s vest as Victor drags him down to the ground with them. Despite how endearing it sounds, he’s too entranced to look right away. He can imagine it, he sees it every day. The way Victor wrestles Makkachin on the floor of the apartment, the little headlocks, the way he buries his face in the thick fur.

He turns in time to see Victor sit halfway up, leaning back on his elbow as he throws the tennis ball back towards the shore again, and Makkachin flees. Then he lays back down, flat, their shoulders touching.

“Do you know any constellations?” Yuuri asks. He feels Victor take his hand again.

Victor’s other hand reaches up to point. “Well, that’s Orion.”

Yuuri chuckles. “I know that one. Everyone knows that one.”

“Fine, fine,” Victor sighs and Yuuri can see the breath hanging in front of them for a moment. Victor squeezes his hand. He points his finger and begins to trace out a line. “How about Canis Major?”

“I’ve never heard of that one.”

“It’s a dog!” Victor is still gesturing to trace the shape. Yuuri doesn’t admit it, but he has no idea what Victor is pointing at. Some stars are brighter than others, that much he can tell, but there are just _so many_ and he really can’t be sure. But he likes the excitement in Victor’s voice and lets him continue. “See that really bright one? That’s Sirius, it’s the dog nose!”

He takes a moment to scratch Makkachin’s head and throw the ball again when the dog returns. Then points back up.

“And there’s Gemini,” he says. “And that one is Perseus, the hero.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. He still isn’t sure where Victor is pointing, but it doesn’t really matter. “I didn’t know you knew about stars.”

Victor curls onto his side and lays his head on Yuuri’s chest. “Yeah.”

“So… this is what you wanted to show me?” he asks. Victor nods but doesn’t say anything else. After a moment he lifts his head, looking over towards the shore, so Yuuri does, too. Makkachin is sitting in the snow, chewing on his tennis ball. Once Victor can see he’s safe, he leans back down.

Yuuri can feel the tension in the other man’s frame. It’s a bit unusual for him but Yuuri has witnessed it a few times, the way he sometimes struggles to put feelings into words. He lets go of Victor’s hand so that he can reach around and rub his back. He feels the muscles loosen a little, and Victor settles against him some more.

“This is where I learned to skate,” he says. His voice is deeper than usual and catches in his throat.  Yuuri’s heart trips.

He kisses the top of Victor’s head. “Thank you for bringing me.”

 

 

* * *

 

By the time Makkachin is bored chewing on his tennis ball and pads back over to them, Yuuri is cold enough that he’s shivering. He’s pressing himself as tightly as he can against Victor’s body for warmth, not minding any of it at all and not equipped to complain, happy to wait for Victor to make a move. Victor sits up to throw the ball again, now with a hole torn in the side, after Makkachin drops it onto his chest. When he doesn’t lay back down, Yuuri sits up, too.

His eyes have adjusted well in the time they’ve been staring into the sky and he can see Victor’s face clearly. It’s serene but unreadable, and their gazes hold for a moment before Victor turns away to grab his backpack from beside his legs. Yuuri’s curiosity is again piqued.

“Here,” Victor says, and he puts Yuuri’s ice skates into his lap. Yuuri’s eyebrows shoot up. Victor is kicking his shoes off and putting his own skates on.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Victor cocks a half grin.

“I’m going skating, what does it look like?”

He stands up and stretches his arms over his head, a stripe of skin flashing at his hips for a quick second where his jacket rides up. Then he’s off, chasing after Makkachin to get the ball again. Yuuri just stares at first, enthralled, before he actually starts lacing up. By the time he’s finished, Victor is looming over him and reaching down to help him up.

It’s strange the way it all feels so new and exciting, but still so natural. He giggles nervously as Victor takes both of his hands and begins to skate backwards, pulling him along. The air on his face is biting, but it at least feels more normal now, a bit more familiar.

Their skating is languid, relaxing. Nothing fancy. Victor does wiggle away a few times to do little waltz jumps as he throws the ball back to Makkachin, and Yuuri laughs at him. It’s like he just can’t help himself, can’t stay on the ground. But for the most part it’s just… skating. And it feels like it used to feel, and it doesn’t feel like Victor is his coach. And Victor doesn’t feel like Victor Nikiforov the Figure Skater, the Olympian, the Champion. He just feels like Yuuri’s dorky fiancé.

“It’s important,” Victor says, and tugs Yuuri’s wrists so that they spin around each other, “to remember why you skate sometimes. It can’t only be your job.”

Yuuri pulls his hands away, stroking with one foot and grabbing Victor’s hip to push him back. He doesn’t resist and glides easily under Yuuri’s touch. “But, Victor,” he says, and grazes Victor’s face with the back of his knuckles. “How would I forget why I skate?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

At some point on the way home Yuuri falls asleep, one arm tucked between his head and the window. He doesn’t wake when Victor parks, not even when he shuts off the car. It’s Victor’s hand rubbing his shoulder that brings him around, and there’s the quick succession of confusion, then annoyance, then embarrassment that he has to roll through as he comes to his senses. He feels the heat rising in his cheeks; he always feels bad when he falls asleep in the car, like it’s rude, like he should’ve been awake to keep Victor company. But Victor doesn’t seem to mind.

When they enter the apartment the heat makes his skin crawl and it hits him that he’s completely freezing. Even the heat in the car didn’t do much to help, having spent most of the trip with his head against the window. The tips of his ears tingle and he can’t feel his face. And now that they’re back, and bed is a possibility, his body remembers that he was stolen in the night to go on an adventure, and he realizes exactly how _tired_ he is.

He goes ahead of Victor into the bedroom while Victor gets Makkachin out of his vest and pours him some water. Yuuri’s leaving a trail of clothes across the room towards the bed, where he’d left his pajama pants from earlier. But he’s shivering before he can put them on, so cold that his skin hurts. Since moving to Russia he’s learned that cold like this permeates you down to your bones. He stares longingly at the unmade bed. The sheets will be cold when he gets in, so will the blankets. Even the fabric on the pants if he pulls them on. He knows it won’t help, and he can already predict that he’ll be laying awake, too cold and uncomfortable to fall asleep.

A shower, then. He heads into the adjoining bathroom and flips the faucets on, taking a few minutes to brush his teeth and finish undressing while the water heats up. He tests it with his hand before he steps inside. Even just feeling it on his hand makes the chills rise up over his spine.

He takes in a sharp breath as he steps in and fully submerges himself. It’s such a violent clash against how cold he is, and it feels _so good_ but it’s almost too much. He grits his teeth and presses his palms up against the wall, letting his head hang, the water beating against the back of his neck. It tingles against the bumps that are still raised everywhere.

It only takes a few minutes before he’s feeling soft all over. Behind his closed eyes he can still see the starry sky, and though it’s beautiful, breathtaking, it’s also a frightening reminder to how cold it is outside. His nose is running and he knows it’s still pink. He rolls his shoulders in the heat. It will take a few minutes to sink in, he knows this, but it already has him melting.

He’s so distracted, so wrapped up in sensation, that he doesn’t hear Victor enter the bathroom, and barely has time to register the sound of the shower door opening before the hands are on his hips, and the chest is pressed up to his back. And Victor is _freezing_.

“ _Yamerooooo_!” he shouts, and he wants to wiggle away, but he has nowhere to go. Victor’s laugh, low and deep next to his ear, makes him shudder.

“What does that mean?”

“It means your fucking hands are cold!”

“Sorry, babe,” Victor bites at the top of Yuuri’s ear, “I couldn’t resist.”

The hands slide forward and stop at Yuuri’s abs, pulling him closer. The chills rise up again on Yuuri’s skin--Victor’s entire body is so cold still and it’s such an uncomfortable contrast.

“You’ll have to warm me up,” he says. Yuuri groans and rolls his eyes.

He manages to squirm out from under Victor’s grip and turns around so that they’re facing. “Get in the water, then,” he mumbles, and urges Victor closer under the spray. He reaches up and combs Victor’s hair back from his face with his fingers as it gets wet.

“Did you wash your hair yet?” Victor asks.

“I wasn’t _showering_ showering,” Yuuri says. “I just wanted to warm up.”

And there’s a moment where Victor’s face falls, and he looks completely crushed. He’s almost pouting when Yuuri takes pity.

“You can wash my hair if you really want to.”

“Okay!” Victor instantly lights up and he reaches for the shampoo on the shelf over Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri doesn’t completely understand it, to be honest, but Victor goes absolutely wild any time he gets to play with Yuuri’s hair. Combing it, styling it for skating, shampooing it. Even just touching it at random throughout the day. Yuuri doesn’t get it but he allows it, because there’s not a whole lot he wouldn’t allow when it comes to Victor.

But the feeling of the hands in his hair is so relaxing, the way the fingertips work gentle circles against his scalp. He finds himself closing his eyes and moaning into it, and letting Victor guide his head back when it’s time so that the water can rinse it away. Victor even cups Yuuri’s brow with his hand so that the suds don’t get in his eyes.

When it’s done, Yuuri returns the favor. He thinks about all the ways Victor makes this a sensual experience. Pressing his fingertips down into secret patterns, reaching around to the back and lightly scratching the base of his skull. Yuuri imitates it, watching Victor’s face for clues. When he massages a certain point behind Victor’s ear, the blue eyes flutter shut, and then their mouths are pressed together and Victor is moaning.

Victor leans into him; Yuuri can feel the arousal, stiff and wet. The chills pass over his body again--not just the havoc of the heat trying to sink in still, but the things Victor does to his brain. It isn’t just a figure of speech that he’s been _turned on_ , like a switch Victor knows how to flip. Victor takes a step forward, forcing Yuuri back against the shower wall. He gasps at the shock of the cold tile, hands squeezing into fists for a second and giving Victor’s hair an accidental tug. Victor bites Yuuri’s bottom lip in response.

It’s hard to think straight with Victor kissing him like this, hard to focus through the overload of sensation. The warmth of the water rolling down his body, the hands that are squeezing his ass, the tongue in his mouth. Even the smaller details work in--the scent of the shampoo, the bubbles forming between his fingers, the faint, so faint, scratch of Victor’s stubble against his chin. He’s left gaping and stunned when Victor pulls away, and he wants to protest but Victor is kissing his throat, then his collar bone, then leaning down to suck on his nipple, and finally he’s sinking completely down onto his knees.

Yuuri squeaks when Victor nips at the skin on his stomach, feeling the sharp pinch of teeth that makes the hair stand up on his neck. And despite all that, despite the obvious warning signs, he still doesn’t feel ready when Victor grabs him by the cock. He tilts his head back to look up into Yuuri’s face as he gives him a few strokes, squeezing hard up by the head in a way that makes Yuuri’s abs clench. And then the cold is completely gone; he can vaguely remember that, just a couple hours ago, they were outside laying on a frozen lake, the lake where Victor learned to skate, and he hadn’t cared that he was shivering, and now he barely remembers shivering because Victor’s mouth is around his dick and all he can feel is the heat.

His hands continue to move in Victor’s hair, and the more it lathers, the more fragrance rises up in the steam. And the smell is so very _Victor_ , so much that he lets out a low groan. The back of his skull hits the tile behind him as Victor’s head bobs up and down. The steam and the scent all around him is too much, like Victor is infused into the air somehow.

He looks down again, feeling like he _shouldn’t_ , like he _can’t,_ because the sight is just too fucking much, but he can’t resist. There’s something so completely intoxicating about it. When he sucks hard it emphasizes his cheek bones, the skin hollowed beneath them, and seeing his shaft go in and out beneath the pink lips is just so deeply obscene. And he doesn’t want to objectify Victor as Victor Nikiforov the Figure Skater, Olympian, etc., but…

The thing is, it had taken such a long time to relax during sex that he hadn’t really been able to appreciate it right away. And he hadn’t been nervous _because_ it was Victor, per se. He’d be nervous with anyone--he had been nervous with the other people he’d slept with, as well. But, like with all things in his life, it had taken time to learn how to relax, to learn how to enjoy himself and ignore the pestering, self-deprecating anxiety thoughts. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d imagined doing this, biting his lip to stay quiet in his parent’s house as he jerked himself off, staring up at any of the posters in the room. Victor and Victor and Victor.

So maybe it feels like making up for lost time that he takes a minute to appreciate it, because his fucking idol is on the ground, on his knees, servicing Yuuri so thoroughly that he’s not sure how he’s still upright. It’s a dirty little knot of pride in his chest that he can possess Victor like this.

A line of foam is dripping down from Victor’s hairline and Yuuri catches it with a thumb so that it doesn’t get in his eyes. Even without his glasses he can make out the silver eyelashes, dark and clumping together in the water, and they lift when he scratches lines across Victor’s occipital bone. He feels a physical jolt in his gut when the blue eyes land on him. They bore into him, right into him. Victor pulls back and fills the empty space on Yuuri’s cock with a steady, confident hand. It feels like a challenge as he glares up, prodding Yuuri’s urethra with the tip of his tongue.

And, Jesus Christ, he has to press one of his hands against his chest as if it can still his racing heart, the shampoo making it slide across his skin. And with his palm pressed to his breastbone he can feel how hard he’s breathing--he hadn’t noticed before, and suddenly there isn’t enough air. Something flickers in Victor’s eyes then--he’s calculating, watching Yuuri. Deliberate, purposeful. So he sinks back down, slowly at first, and pausing at a point that seems comfortable to give a quick suck, but then he takes Yuuri so deep and so fast that Yuuri cries out.

The head of his dick is hitting the hard space at the back of Victor’s throat, and having the sensitive tip so stimulated while Victor’s soft lips work the lower half of the shaft is too much. Too much. The shampoo is so slippery but he’s still able to curl strands of the silver hair around his fingers. It cuts off the circulation and the quiet, red pain that flares smoothes out through his nerves. But because he’s pulling Victor’s hair, Victor _moans_ , and his cock is so deep in Victor’s throat that he can feel it squeezing all around him.

He drops his other hand down, back into Victor’s hair, cradling the back of Victor’s skull and holding it tight, keeping Victor’s head right where it is because he’s shaking all over and he can’t take it anymore.

“ _Victor, I--”_ he wants to warn him, and he’s trying to, but the words get trapped in his throat as he gives Victor a tiny thrust. He’s trying to restrain himself because the way Victor gags around him makes him feel so _guilty_ , but the guilt inflames something so primal. It isn’t just guilt for causing discomfort, it’s guilt because he _likes it_ , likes it so much, and the way Victor’s hands dig into his thighs as it all happens sets him off. Another wave of fragrance drifts up to him in the steam--like violet and citrus and _fucking Victor_ \--and this submersion in Victor’s essence--the thing he’s smelled like since the day they met--the overhang of the weird morning they’ve had and the staggering weight of his emotions--of his love--transcend the physical sensation. He’s coming hard, and the tight grip on the tip of his cock makes it feel like Victor is _tearing_ the orgasm out of him.

He can’t see with his own eyes, but he can imagine the way his cum is painting the back of Victor’s throat, and he can imagine it dripping down as Victor’s grasp on his thighs relents. He shifts on his knees as he rubs gently now, seeing Yuuri through the orgasm and swallowing as his dick convulses. And then he’s pulling away just as Yuuri’s about to fall into aftershocks, and he sits back on his heels and looks up at Yuuri. His eyelids twitch and he squints against the water but he has the such a coy look on his face, and it’s such an act, and he wipes the corner of his mouth so daintily with his ring finger that Yuuri has to look away.

Even though his heart is pounding and he’s feeling dizzy, he reaches to reciprocate when Victor stands up. But Victor smiles and kisses him on the cheek, and a firm hand on his chest keeps him against the wall so that Victor can get under the faucet. He says nothing as he rinses his hair out, then conditions. And, as Yuuri had explained, it isn’t a _shower_ shower, but he still takes a few minutes to soap himself before he gives Yuuri a little squeeze on the nipple and _leaves_.

“Victor?” Yuuri calls after him, but Victor doesn’t respond. He can make out Victor’s shape, blurry through the shower door and even blurrier because he doesn’t have his glasses, and he sees it vanish through the doorway. His heart is still slowing down from the orgasm, and he takes another few minutes to wash off a little and get himself calm before he shuts off and steps out.

He only dries off enough that he’s not dripping all over the floor, but doesn’t bother wrapping the towel around himself. Instead he stands at the counter for a moment. His eyes feel raw and sore; he’s so tired, and the shower worked to warm and soften him, and he’s so ready for bed. But.

A quick swipe across the mirror with his hand reveals a small window of his reflection. His skin is pink all over from the hot water and his bangs are plastered to his forehead. He pushes them back away from his face.

_This is where I learned to skate._

Victor’s voice sounds so clear in his head, and replaying the way it cracked in the middle trips Yuuri’s heart again. It aches.

The palm against his chest eases the tension and urges him to relax into the haze that’s still clinging to him all over, the orgasm still buzzing on the surface of his skin. A deep breath through his nose, then two. Then he gives his head a shake and goes into the bedroom.

It’s still dark outside; Yuuri has been finding the late winter sunrises in Russia a little disorienting. He realizes he has no idea what time is it or how long they were out. But he feels it in his muscles still. It isn’t soreness as if they’d been skating a real routine--just the sleep deprivation taking a toll. And Victor is laying on top of the bed--he must have made it while Yuuri was in the shower--and the reading lamp on the nightstand is on and there’s such a warm yellow glow that Yuuri wants to melt.

Yuuri pauses. Just to stare. Victor put pants on but they’re riding low on his hips. He’s  too far away to see with his own eyes, but he knows that there’s a trail of light hair peeking over the waistband. He knows this from memory. He can make out the bulge beneath it, though, and he cracks a half-grin.

Part of him knows that Victor went down on him to thank him--that Victor probably considered their excursion some type of chore. And Victor probably thinks it was maybe obnoxious to drag his fiancé out of bed in the middle of the night. Because, even though Yuuri felt like it had been a _date_ , and they had fun, he had heard that tone in Victor’s voice.  It was something Victor had _needed,_ and he was grateful to a point of being nearly apologetic.

And the other part of him recognizes that for how silly it really is.

There’s a crescendo inside and he doesn’t want to be apart from Victor anymore. Even from here, in the same room, he can’t stand being so far away. Is it awkward and needy? The love between them is strong and genuine but it’s still new, they’re still learning. Victor had shared something with him, something personal and maybe frightening, maybe painful. And his mouth had told Yuuri, without words, how thankful he was that Yuuri had let him. Is it ridiculous that he wants to thank Victor _back_?

It hits every cliché, every trope--Yuuri can hear it like a cheesy sitcom in his head, _no, I love YOU more!_ \--but it’s true, isn’t it? And he doesn’t know what to do to make it stop. And he doesn’t want it to stop.

Because now he just wants to thank Victor back. _Thank you for showing yourself to me._

He wants to possess Victor the way he’s been possessed.

Yuuri’s chest throbs.

The blowjob had taken the edge off, so he’s not as shaky as he thinks he should be as he starts across the room. Victor’s face gets clearer as he approaches. It’s serene and yielding, the vaguest unconscious trace of smile on the soft lips, eyes so bright and blue even in the dim lamplight. He goes to the drawer on the nightstand first; the lube is essential and he grabs it without thinking, but then his hand hovers over the other objects, fingers tracing back and forth as he tries to decide. When he stops at the purple one he’s not even sure why, like his subconscious made the decision for him. For them.

Victor is already lifting his hips to slide his pants off when Yuuri crawls onto the bed, crossing the space on his knees until he’s close enough to lean down and kiss Victor again. It’s been what? Five minutes? Ten? Since they’ve kissed? And it feels like too long. Victor is kicking his pants off and touching Yuuri’s jaw, and his skin is still so warm from the shower.

Yuuri is sideways on the bed, and once Victor’s pants are off he’s pulling at Victor’s knee to spread his legs apart. He feels the hitch in Victor’s breath against his mouth, and the way the fingertips press a little harder into his face. He’d wanted to reciprocate in the shower, but Victor hadn’t allowed him to. It’s embarrassing how moony this guy makes him feel.

Ridiculous.

He pulls away and leans back on his heels. Victor starts to sit up and come after him but Yuuri places a firm hand against his shoulder to keep him down. There’s a brief flash in Victor’s eyes--Yuuri knows that flash, the pure lust and energy and the competitor in him ready to take over--but when he feels the power and purpose in Yuuri’s gesture he settles back. Yuuri holds him there for a moment, staring down and pressing him into the mattress, making sure the message is received before he eases up. When Victor stays put he gives a small smile as a reward.

“ _Good boy_ ,” he whispers, and Victor nearly squirms.

He pops the cap on the lube and pours some out onto the tip of his index finger, staring Victor in the eye as he spreads it down with his thumb. Then another squeeze to cover his middle finger, and Victor is taking in a shaky breath as Yuuri continues the motion. It’s almost elegant.

“Thank you for taking me out tonight, Victor,” he says, and touches the slicked fingers to Victor’s rim. He isn’t trying to be brazen or play up a role--even as he says it he can hear in his own voice how gentle and genuine he’s being. How much he really means it. Victor makes a breathless little noise as the fingers circle him, tease him, but he doesn’t say anything in response.

“It was so beautiful there,” and his fingers are pushing through, slowly, and Victor’s hips are coming off the mattress a little bit.

There’s love and trust here. Yuuri knows it’s real but it isn’t a fairy tale, isn’t a quick fix. It can blunt the edges of their anxieties but there’s still so much to learn. _It’s still so new._ It’s going to take time and patience, and that idea sort of thrills him. There was something so disarming about seeing Victor become so small and vulnerable, something that hurt so fucking bad when he’d seen behind the mask, but he wanted to see it _again_.

He moves his fingers in and out, stretching Victor and studying the way he breathes. His throat goes dry when he curls against Victor’s prostate and a broken string of pleas pour out. He wants to say _Thank you for showing me, Victor. Thank you for letting me see_ , but he can tell by way Victor’s brow creases, and the way he reaches up to touch Yuuri’s cheek, that he doesn’t have to.

The purple toy is beside his leg. It bumps into him as he shifts his weight. A thrill ripples through his gut at the reminder, and he’s internally rolling his eyes again for being so moony that he’d forgotten it was even there. But right, right. It’s time, isn’t it? He smiles down to Victor, toeing the line between playful and sympathetic, and pulls out so that he can change his approach. Victor’s eyes are dark with anticipation as he coats the toy with lube.

This one is Victor’s favorite. Yuuri considers the word _favorite_ as meaning _the one that makes him come the hardest_ , not necessarily the one he uses the most often. Because the truth is that whenever this one makes an appearance, he can barely last. It’s a prostate massager--slightly smaller than Yuuri’s dick, smooth silicone with the hard vibrating core. Buttons on a convenient and ergonomic curved handle. It’s a dark, metallic purple that glitters a little bit in the light, especially once it’s coated and shiny.

Yuuri watches Victor’s face as he eases it in. The tip is a wider bulb, the shaft ridged so that Victor is gasping as he teases it in and out a few times. But, no, no. He’s not trying to go crazy just yet, and apologizes with his eyes as he lets it go still. He just sets it in place for later, so that Victor can feel it there. In the lamplight he can see the sheen of sweat that’s come over Victor’s forehead.

“Put out your hand,” he says. His voice is still even and gentle, but he supposes words come with their own weight. When Victor obeys he pours lube into the open palm.

Still at Victor’s side, he’s positioned so that when he leans in and takes Victor’s dick into his mouth, Victor can reach out and touch him, spread him. At some point, he wasn’t completely sure when, he’d gotten hard again, and he has to draw himself away from Victor more than once to gasp for breath as the fingers penetrate him. Victor is so hard already, and doesn’t need more stimulation, so it’s probably fine that he bows his head against the crest of Victor’s hipbone to regroup, but he tries to concentrate enough to use his hand. It’s still slick from lubing the toy and he’s doing his best to get every inch. He can feel them both coiling, the tension building, and he’s not sure if he’s ready but doesn’t care anymore.

He pulls Victor’s hand away and moves to crawl on top of him, straddling him. Victor’s feet are flat on the bed, legs propped up so that Yuuri can lean back against them for leverage. He pours more lube into his hand and reaches down to cover Victor with it.

Victor tries to guide himself into place, but Yuuri swats the hands away, leaning forward to pin them down against the mattress. It’s not time that he wants to waste, but it’s a message he wants to get across. They hold each other’s gazes for a torturous slow moment, Yuuri grinding back against Victor’s sensitive parts. Victor is _panting_.

“Please,” he whimpers. “ _Please_.”

So Yuuri nods, and he lets go, and he sits back up. He doesn’t break eye contact as he reaches behind himself to take Victor’s cock, taunting it with the last few unnecessary strokes before putting it in position and sinking down.

A guttural moan fills the room, trailed by an incoherent tumble of Russian, slurring and desperate. Hands come up to squeeze around Yuuri’s ribs, and Yuuri allows that much. Victor’s hips are lifting just a little, an instinct he can’t help, but he’s not trying to take control. Yuuri lifts himself up and down a few times, slowly, trying to adjust. There’s pain, but he wants it; it’s blending out nicely to his lower back, and he’s so turned on by the idea that he’ll be able to feel Victor there tomorrow. That he’s been possessed. He _likes it._

“Fuck, Yuuri,” Victor’s voice is rough and dry. Yuuri presses himself all the way down, leaning into it and gasping. There’s another torrent of Russian and he plants his hands flat on Victor’s chest and rises again, only to drive himself down. “Fuck, Yuuri. _Fuck_ you’re so tight.”

The words unlock something in him, untie something in his chest. He starts riding a little faster, digging his fingernails into the tender skin over Victor’s pecs. His thoughts are on a loop with the rhythm. _Thank you for showing me, thank you, thank you. Fuck I love you._

Victor can see the look on his face, and read it--he sees right fucking through it, and he’s squeezing Yuuri so hard that he can’t breathe for a beat--and Yuuri is so confused by the mix of emotions. He doesn’t understand what this mechanism is on the inside, this thing that’s been ignited. That he can love someone this much and want to _destroy him so bad_ , that he wants Victor to scream, that he wants to completely own this man.

It occurs to him that it’s another thing he has to learn, that this is still so new, that it takes time and patience. His mind flashes on their first few times together--how tense and nervous he was--how he’d felt so shy and ashamed by what little experience he had in comparison. It had been so embarrassing that he’d only been with two people--he’d felt so inadequate.

But it was stupid to think that way, it had been a waste of time.

And now, staring down at Victor, seeing the mess he’s making of the man’s composure, the strain on the pretty face, he realizes he should’ve just waited. Victor could have been his first, and he still would’ve been nervous, but it would’ve been so worth it. Not throwing his virginity away to someone who didn’t give a fuck about him, just to get it out of the way. Not sloppy and drunk in college. Victor had always been the one. He wishes he’d waited.

“Yu- _uri_ ,” he bends forward so that their chests fuse together, still rocking his hips back against Victor’s cock. Lays a long, wet kiss on Victor’s mouth. Victor is still moaning and trying to speak and the vibration against his lips makes Yuuri’s spine tingle. He cups Victor’s face with one hand and pulls away so that he can look down. And he _stares_. Studies the face like he’ll have a test on it tomorrow. Victor twitches and hits into Yuuri’s prostate and he nearly folds back over. There’s still so much they’re going to learn about each other.

“Yuuri, slow down,” Victor begs, and the edges of his nails bite into Yuuri’s skin for emphasis. “Please, I--”

He tilts his head and presses back. Comes forward and kisses Victor’s forehead. He lingers there for a moment, bringing one hand up into his hair. It’s damp. Had it ever dried? He takes a deep breath to smell the shampoo again and it goes straight to his dick. He can’t help the moan. It’s exhilarating to _inhale_ him like this, to feel like Victor is filling all of him, _all of him_ , not just the physical penetration but the illusion that he’s in Yuuri’s head now, too, his lungs, everywhere.

“Victor,” he whispers. Kisses his temple, then the soft skin below his eye. “Victor, Victor. You’re so fucking gorgeous.”

“Please, baby,” Victor tries to arch his back off the bed but Yuuri presses down into him. “You’re gonna make me come, slow down.”

He kisses Victor’s jaw, right below his ear. “ _No_.”

Victor could respond by sitting up and taking control, or tackling Yuuri on his back to drill him. He knows because Victor did that last time. But he relents, and Yuuri is caught in the violent mix of arousal and affection from it. He’s been learning how to push Victor and learning that Victor likes to be pushed. This love, this trust, isn’t a magic trick, it’s not a fairytale--but, little by little they reveal their true selves.

Yuuri straightens, settling his weight down. Victor is straining, shaking, and Yuuri gives himself away by crying out around the stretch. It takes another few strokes to regain control, to ride out spikes of pleasure. Victor is almost there, and…

He leans back against Victor’s raised thighs for balance, reaching back to grab one with one hand. Victor is so close, teetering on the edge, breath ragged, abs clenching. So close that all he’d need is a little…

The hand on Victor’s leg skates down behind them both. He has to arch himself upward to reach, and he almost loses focus on the task at hand as the shift changes the angle on his prostate. And the feeling is so good, so paralyzing that he switches on the massager almost out of spite.

It’s like a detonation.

Victor seizes beneath him instantly, hands still and firm on Yuuri’s sides, limbs trembling. He convulses hard enough that his shoulders come up off the bed. Every line in his throat stands out, the column of cartilage, the strained tendons. It looks like he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes on Yuuri, but they’re fluttering shut. There’s a broken noise coming out of his open mouth, wracked and inconsolable, pleading and pathetic and so fucking beautiful. Yuuri can feel the heat spurting and spreading inside him, feel the unsteady contractions pulsing through Victor’s dick.

He grinds himself down, merciless and selfish, loving how he can see Victor careening there--shuddering and gasping through the last heated seconds before it becomes too much. It’s about to cross the line into pain, and… Yuuri leans back, calmly, because he loves this part. He reaches behind and presses the massager a little deeper, deliberately squeezing around Victor as he does it, and he loves how it makes Victor writhe.

Victor’s hands come up to cover his face. Yuuri doesn’t mean to torture him so bad but he’s so inspired by the cries coming out now. The voice has gone up a few octaves and he just sounds so needy and weak. It’s doing something to him. The way Victor is twitching is too good.

The guilt is back but it’s burning so hot and hard and he’s barely thinking about it as he grabs the lube from next to his leg, pouring some on himself and indulging with a few wet strokes. He’s been so focused on Victor that he hasn’t cared about how his own dick has gone untouched this whole time, and even the pressure of his own hand is threatening to end him. Not yet, though, not yet. Just a little longer.

He lifts himself up and off, and catches the freed cock with one hand to give it a little squeeze  while he pulls out the massager.

“ _Yuuri please,_ ” Victor is whining. But that’s it, that’s all. Yuuri crawls between his legs and pushes his knees apart. Please what? He almost asks for a clarification but there’s a hysterical tangle of Russian coming out now, unfamiliar syllables split apart by choked pathetic breaths. He opens his hand and rubs the palm up and down Victor’s over-sensitive dick, pressing it against the hard stomach, then pulling back to fondle the balls. All of it is affecting Victor, breaking him into pieces, but he hasn’t asked Yuuri to stop.

So he doesn’t.

Victor is already so stretched and wet. His hands drop from his face as Yuuri pushes in;  it’s a look like shock there. One of Yuuri’s hands settles under Victor’s knee, holding him open, the other still stroking. It had already been getting to him--the way Victor was falling apart--but now with every hitch and whimper he can feel Victor clenching around him. It feels satisfying; that this is evidence of how he’d been able to break his lover, just as the trickle down the inside of his thigh is evidence.

He can’t last like this and doesn’t really try to. He’s pounding hard and fast, shaking the entire bedframe so that it thuds against the wall.

“ _Yuuriiii,”_ the hands come up to cup his face, one sliding around the back of his neck. He’s gritting his teeth with the final few thrusts and it takes all his focus to keep his eyes open through it. Victor’s mouth is hanging open and there are tears hanging on his eyelashes. And the dick in his hand starts pulsing again, and he can feel the contractions as Victor spills out across his own stomach, and the scream that comes out of him is so tortured, so strained, that Yuuri follows instantly.

He lets go of Victor’s cock, steadying himself by putting his hand down against the bed, turning his head to press it against Victor’s leg. Breaths are so shaky as he sees it through. He shuts his eyes and sees the stars again. Remembers the sharp bite of wind at his neck.

For a moment he just stays still, chest heaving and ears ringing. As the initial wave recedes he just wants to collapse, and it feels like everything catches up at once, hits him right in the gut. He pulls out and eases Victor’s leg down, being so gentle now. It’s done, it’s done. Be gentle now.

There’s a force in the room like a magnet and he wants nothing more than to click into Victor’s side, take his place there where he belongs, but not yet. He tries to focus. Things have to be done first, and he can tell that Victor is in no state to do them. But that’s okay. Yuuri is happy to take care of him.

He scoops the massager and the bottle of lube off the bed and moves them to the nightstand. He grabs a washcloth from the bathroom and begins to clean them both off. Victor is spent and soft, melted, and he just lays back to allow it. He pushes and pulls at Victor’s shoulders to get him to move off the bed long enough to discard the top blanket, stained as it were by the toll of their love. Victor is boneless and giggly and pliant and has the most drunk, adoring look on his face. And there’s that ache in Yuuri’s chest as he tucks Victor in under the sheets, and pushes his bangs out of his eyes and gives him a little scratch behind the ear.

When he opens the bedroom door to grab a new blanket from the hallway closet, Makkachin bounces past him and hops into the bed. He can hear Victor laughing and cooing at him from the hallway and he has to stop for a minute to compose himself.

And then he’s back, and the bed is made and warm, and Victor is curled on his side around Makkachin, and Yuuri crawls in behind them. The sun still hasn’t risen and when he clicks off the lamp the whole room goes dark. He presses his chest to Victor’s back and slings an arm over his waist. It’s warm there, so warm.

“You’re going to kill me,” Victor mumbles, his voice sleepy and content. He grabs Yuuri’s arm and pulls it tighter around himself, pressing their hands to his chest.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says. His voice has returned to its usual note of reticence. He opens his mouth to say something else, wondering if he should really apologize, if maybe he’d done something wrong, if it was too much, but Victor tugs at his hand again and kisses the back of his knuckles before he gets it out.

“Don’t be sorry,” he’s chuckling quietly. “I like it. You’re turning out to be sorta kinky, huh?”

“Victor!” his cheeks are instantly so hot and he knows he’s blushing. He wants to pull his hands back to hide his face but Victor predicts it and won’t let him go. The quiet chuckle turns to a full blown laugh and Victor rolls over to face him, but it’s still so dark in the room. Yuuri can just make out the gleam of Victor’s eyes.

None of this was a quick fix--he still needs to take a minute to smooth over the abrupt spike of panic and shame that had come through, and he knows it’ll happen again in the future. The love and trust is so real but he’s still himself and he’s still trying to learn.

“Come here,” Victor says, and he pulls Yuuri closer. Fingers run through the hair at the back of his head, lips press to his brow. Then a whisper near his ear and a warm hand on his shoulder. “You’re perfect, _rybka_.”

And Yuuri could respond by shutting down, by retreating, by shriveling around the insecurity. He knows because that’s what he used to do. Even two months ago, he would have. But he doesn’t.

He stays.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Here's a tumblah link if you wanna rebagel. :)](https://monstersinthecosmos.tumblr.com/post/158144067954/starchild-monstersinthecosmos-yuri-on-ice)


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